Last night was the second annual 412 Thrive Casino Night, where all the concept photos from the shoot were on display. Each was six feet tall, accompanied by a poster board with a photo of that person’s scar and their story.

The event was held at Acrisure Stadium (formerly Heinz Field), and was very classy and well done. The video from the photo shoot is beautiful; I can’t wait to get the link so I can share it. Hopefully everyone’s portraits will eventually be on 412 Thrive’s website; they’re all incredible. I’ll also get the digital version of the photo. We got to take home the one on display. Now, where to put it??

My story is copied and pasted after the photo, for easier reading, followed by some pictures from the event.

My breast cancer story could be anyone’s – with one crucial difference. What makes mine unique is that I was born profoundly deaf. I interact by reading lips and speaking. Going through breast cancer treatment in 2022 and 2023 meant I also had to deal with universal masking required because of COVID. My only means of communication was effectively cut off. 

“Adfl etgjw ilserj mjikas!” That’s what a person wearing a mask sounds like to me, if I can hear them at all. I was never more cognizant of my disability than during the pandemic, and having to advocate for myself on multiple levels made my cancer journey even more exhausting.

It all started in July 2022. When in the shower, I felt a long, hard mass in my right breast that seemingly appeared overnight. But I didn’t think a 4.0 cm mass constituted a breast cancer “lump.” 

Boy was I in for an education!

When it didn’t go away, I scheduled a mammogram. That was immediately followed by an ultrasound, and later, a biopsy. 

Then came the diagnosis: Invasive ductal carcinoma. Triple negative.

I was told I needed chemotherapy – something I’d always been afraid of. I had immunology along with 16 rounds of chemo (AC and Taxol) and experienced almost all of the side effects. Next were a lumpectomy and sentinel node biopsy. A few days after surgery, I discovered a blood clot and had to go on blood thinners for three months. Twenty rounds of radiation later, I finished treatment. My taste buds didn’t return to normal for months.

During my biopsy and port placement, one nurse wore a clear mask and stayed on my left side to give me a play by play and hold my hand. I can’t have an MRI because of my cochlear implant, so I had a PET/CAT scan. I had to sit still for an hour after being injected by dye – an exercise in patience, since I couldn’t rely on anything audio to help pass the time. The scan presented some difficulty because I couldn’t communicate with the tech while in the machine. We came up with hacks to make it work.

During chemo treatments, I couldn’t talk to any patients in the room. I missed out on that sense of community and sharing of information. And even though the medical professionals wore clear masks for me, the most commonly available ones either didn’t provide protection for the wearer or had a too small clear window. My favorite one, the FaceView (in my photo), isn’t FDA approved for healthcare providers. 

When it comes to clear masks, they benefit everyone, not just those of us with hearing loss. Fifty-five percent of communication is visual, and facial expressions are important for perceived empathy and building rapport. They help us retain our humanity. 

Going through cancer is difficult and isolating enough. Going through cancer as a deaf person was even more challenging. I can only hope that having me as a patient has made the Pittsburgh medical community realize that accessibility needs to be improved. 

After all, breast cancer doesn’t discriminate.